I wake up feeling like absolute arse.
My first thoughts are of regret. Not just because of how I feel but because of what I might have done. I knew being around constant company and constant wine was a dicey gamble on my behalf, but I hadn’t wanted to say no. I hadn’t wanted it to seem like something I couldn’t handle.
But she knew now. She could see it, and when I told her, she hadn’t seemed all that surprised. That was both a good thing and a bad thing. A bad thing because I couldn’t be sure how obvious I was. A good thing because she acted like she wasn’t bothered by it.
Unless she was a good actress. It was hard to tell with Kayla. Part of her wanted to wear her heart on her sleeve, but the other part was always trying to cover it up.
The sound of the patio door sliding open is like a cheese grater to my brain. I open my eyes carefully and see Kayla stepping inside with Emily on the leash.
She sees I’m awake and gives me a soft smile while closing the door.
“Good morning,” she says gently, unhooking Emily from the collar. The dog immediately jumps on the bed, licking me on the nose. I want to move my head, but it hurts too much. Shit, I can’t remember the last time I was hung over, and my body is making sure I’m up for maximum punishment.
“Hey,” I croak, wishing my voice didn’t sound so weak.
I also wish she didn’t look so bloody beautiful, the light coming through the gauzy curtains, lighting her up from behind like an angel. She walks over to me, dressed in another sundress I want to fuck her out of, her hair pulled back in a ponytail with not a trace of makeup on her glowing, fresh-scrubbed face.
Something inside me bleeds for her. It’s a nasty cut in the heart, a slow, deadly leak. It pains me to look at her knowing I’ll be leaving. That pain outweighs the one in my head. It’s no wonder I drank last night. It wasn’t just about the peer pressure. It was about relieving the pressure in my chest, the one that has been slowly building, brick by brick, all week.
I swallow, licking my lips, as she places soft, cool fingers on my cheek. I close my eyes, breathing her in, letting her touch soothe me.
“How are you feeling?” she asks. I open my eyes to see her crouched down at my level, looking at me with those warm dark eyes of hers.
Tomorrow I won’t see those eyes of hers again.
How am I feeling?
I’m not fine.
But I couldn’t quite tell her that last night, when I was drunk and trying to erase the feelings, feelings I do not know how to handle. It has been years and years since I was with a girl that I remotely cared about, and even that scared me halfway to hell. It didn’t end well for either of us. I drank myself into a rehab center and she went screaming the other way.
This, whatever it is between us, wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I should be back at my flat, packing, making phone calls to Alan, our coach, making arrangements to meet with my brother Brigs when I get off the plane. I should be getting ready to return to my old life, the one I’d put on hold for six weeks.
Instead I’m lying helplessly in bed, lost in a woman I don’t know, wishing I could know her better.
What a bloody mess.
“You don’t want to know how I’m feeling,” I tell her.
“I thought as much,” she says, kissing me on the forehead. It works like a blast to my heart.
She gets up and goes into the washroom while I struggle to sit up. I need to wake the fuck up and push past this bullshit, or my last day with her is going to go to waste. When she comes back out, she hands me a glass of water and two ibuprofen.
“Take those, drink it all,” she says, and sits down on the couch across from the bed to watch me.
I do as she says, forcing it down while she looks on in concern.
“Tell me,” she says suddenly, pointing to the lion on my arm. “About the lion.”